


be my undercover lover babe (hiphop in the summer)

by ennaih (aquandrian)



Category: Original Work
Genre: Established Relationship, F/M, Outdoor Sex, Recreational Drug Use, Smut and Fluff, and certain very tanned pix from a premiere, another Mendo AU yep, in which i am very inspired by Madison Ivy, rapturous romanticism, shameless domestic fantasy, some Aussie snark, this is as close to xReader as i get
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-04
Updated: 2017-11-04
Packaged: 2019-01-29 04:01:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,918
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12622732
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aquandrian/pseuds/ennaih
Summary: Seaside luxury, an interlude.





	be my undercover lover babe (hiphop in the summer)

**Author's Note:**

> Title from _Summer Bummer_ by Lana Del Rey. Cos the song wound itself around these images, and to celebrate getting Lana tix, yay. The gig is the day before Mendo's birthday, I figure the universe approves.

She wakes to the sense of clear sunlight on smooth white walls and rumpled white sheets. Lying on her side, eyes closed, listening to the faint birdsong and the lull of the ocean, the movement of breeze across dusty greenery. She’s on holiday, free to do nothing but sleep and laze away the bright days and salt nights in this bedroom by the ocean, in this gorgeous house of modern luxury with the beach sloping down to the water. Naked in the cool sheets, perfect comfort, her hand curled by her cheek. 

Beside her, he lies on his back, silent and breathing just quick enough for her to know he’s awake. She puts a hand on the middle of his bare chest -- warm flesh, somehow hers. Looks at him through her lashes, murmuring, “Do you want to get up?”

He has his face half-turned to the view, eyes shut, his profile all creased skin and soft short lashes. Sunlight glimmers the white sheet twisted around them both. “Soon.”

It’s like a dream, just the two of them in this house of warm wood and glass walls. Such casual elegance with touches and textures of blues here and there. The big fridge is stocked with so much food and fruit, and a pitcher of Pimms chilling from the day before. The wifi is excellent, there are movies and music, everything they could want for perfect indulgence. There’s a woollen throw on the bed in shades of blue, palest in one corner growing vivid and darkening to the diagonal corner. When he’s very tired those first few nights, he sleeps on his stomach and she drapes the throw across his back, kissing the freckles on his smooth shoulder as he dreams.

The first couple of days she feels sexy and glorious, wandering around the place in a louche white top that slips off one shoulder, all bare thighs and long silky legs, the epitome of summer beach glamour, so completely ready to be fucked at any moment. Which for the first couple of days she’s pretty liable to be. It’s the outfit or lack of that makes him voracious, the way he looks at her with a certain new intensity, kisses her like he’d devour her, and fondles her bottom at every possible opportunity. He likes to lick at her nipples through the thin white fabric, turning it almost transparent, his hands curving her spine, positioning her like she’s a pliable little fucktoy for his pleasure. And he likes to drag the slipping edge down until her right breast is bared to his mouth, sharp and hungry. Of course she encourages him in all this, smugly satisfied at the effect she has on him.

What surprises her in the weeks that follow is somehow there is enough time now to keep that beach babe look, to hum quietly in the big beautiful bathroom as she does her legs and moisturises because there’s really nothing else to do but live the dream. 

They shower together, kissing under the stinging cool water. And then it’s shower fresh sex, all clean smelling and lovely in the cool sheets. Laughter and bare skin and long filthy kisses. The complex moving shapes of his shoulders when he’s fucking her, the way his crisp silver hair gleams against the pale skin of her breasts, the sight of his fine pink mouth closing around the erect shape of her nipple. All these little images to file away in her memory, precious and perfect moments. Like when she licks a trail up his side to connect all his freckles, like when she nuzzles into the soft brown hair under his arm and he laughs breathlessly, calling her weird like he didn’t know that already.

They binge shows together in bed and play games on their phones, then bitch each other out for not paying attention to the show. He goes down on her with Mindhunter in the background, and she wonders for a moaning second if she’s now going to associate the goddamned FBI with the feel of his wet tongue in her wettest most secret parts. When she tells him this, he grins, rubbing his nose against hers. “Good. Serves you right for ruining The Expanse for me.” 

He cooks and she does the dishes. When he complains mildly about this, she jokes, “What? You cook and I suck your cock. Is that not a fair division of labour?”

His laugh is shocked, eyes clever blue in the clear light. “I can’t suck my own cock!”

“I can’t cook! Totally fair!”

But he likes it when they’re together in the kitchen, she knows this. He smokes as he cooks and they have long rambling discussions. She sits on the counter with her legs dangling, watching and talking cheerfully until he orders her to chop up a salad or something. He’ll taste sauce and give her to try, watching her reaction closely. When she approves, she gets a light grateful kiss. When she wrinkles her nose and offers a suggestion, he tells her she doesn’t know anything about food but then he changes it anyway. She hugs him from behind, loving the warmth and playfulness of them together.

Most days they take a walk along the beach. She puts on pants specially for this. Her hair is long and shaggy, heavy on her neck until she stops to put it up and he gazes out at the ocean. He takes pictures on his phone of weird swirls in the sand. She takes pix of his profile against the vivid skies, of the way his hair curls on his sunburning neck, of his big hand clasping hers. It’s been a week and he’s growing that skeezy tache that she’s going to whine about soon. Maybe she’ll offer to shave it off for him.

“No!” He recoils, indignant.

“Aw! Please,” she whines, pouting shamelessly.

With a scowl, he fends her off. “No, I like it, fuck off!”

She subsides, not yet admitting defeat. And when they make love, he burns her with a sort of malicious delight, rubbing that skeezy thing on the soft inside of her thighs. “Fucker,” she moans, pulling him up, him with his wicked beautiful eyes before he kisses her quiet and yielding.

They drive into the nearby town for groceries, and on the way back get ice cream from the old store with its peeling signs and faded ancient advertisements. “Icy pole,” she tells him, playfully rounding the vowels as she offers it rapidly melting to him.

“Paddle pop,” he replies with a flourish.

“Weiss bar!” 

“Oooh,” he says, mocking her for her posh taste because he’s so old school Aussie true blue in a way she’ll never be able to access.

“Fuck off,” she retorts, following him out of the store and laughing because that is the perfect Aussie comeback anyway. Across the roof of the car, he grins at her as he unlocks the door. He’s getting so tanned and beautiful now, his skin weathered and his hair so silver ruffled up. To see him happy feels like the most wonderful thing, a precious and privileged sight.

He leaves his hiphop in the city and fills the house with dreamy songs and croony old ballads that make her smile. That Nancy Sinatra Lee Hazlewood album gets a lot of play. He relaxes out on the deck, a lazy rumpled man in a deep maroon tank top and dark shorts, his arm dangling off the side of the lounge chair. But that’s not a cigarette he holds. When she slips through the glass doors, he smiles up at her against the sun. And offers her the joint. “Want some?”

He knows damned well how she feels about the stuff. And any other time she might be annoyed with him and they’d probably fight about it because he thinks she’s overreacting and she thinks it’s unnecessary and he accuses her of being a prude and she accuses him of being reckless with his history and both their addict personalities.

But this time she looks out to the ocean, calm and glittering. The breeze is fresh and lovely on her skin, stirring the white top against her bare thighs. The music streams from the cool inside, smooth mesmerising melody over a flicking beat. Everything is calm and beautiful here, everything feels safe with him. So she looks down at his face -- he is so loved, they both know it -- at his creased dreamy smile and eyes that glitter soft blue between his lashes. And she accepts.

It is safe, lying against his chest in the languid shade as the sun changes across the sky and sea, feeling surrounded by him. He lifts his arm to take a steady drag, then passes her the joint. Her flesh feels heavy, strung through with sunwarm, lulled by the way he constantly touches her. He is forever tactile, forever seeking stimulus, and the weed doesn’t change that. Constant and slow strokes of her hair, trailing his fingertips along her bared arms, playing with her hands even as she feels his thoughts spiral away from her, away over the sand and changing waters, away on the wild salt breeze. 

When she passes the joint back to him, he returns to her with a small smile. She turns her head to press her lips against his chest above the tank. His skin there is pink now, sundamaged.

“Cream,” she murmurs.

“Mm?” His angular face quirks with those expressive brows. He’s looking at her mouth, latent heat in blue.

“Body cream,” she says again and kisses him with a little flick of tongue. “You need it.”

He’s made a soft rough sound in his throat at the taste of her, sultry now. “Do I?”

“Cream me up,” he says. It’s a command, flusters her with terrible arousal.

“Oh fuck you,” she replies softly. And obeys anyway because it suits her, trailed into the house by the sound of his quiet laugh. He knows full well that he has her wrapped around his little finger, but then she’s also liable to take a bite out of him at any time. 

The maroon tank coils on the wooden deck, followed by her white top and then his shorts. She allows herself to be distracted for a little while, sucking on the side of his neck until he’s moaning and clutching at her, hands slipping. His head tilts back and she just knows his lashes are flicking pretty against the delicate skin under his eyes, knows from those sounds he makes that he’s getting so very hard. By now she’s learned that he always starts off moaning and ends up swearing. Getting him from here to there is so much fun. 

Now the cream scent rises off her fingers. It’s rich and complex sweet like honey and flowers and just that little sharp citrus. As she smoothes it into his skin, the sun strokes down her naked back, warm in the darkness of her hair trickling onto her nape. All she sees is him, the pretty colours of him with his blue eyes fluttering shut and red open lips and all his lovely freckled skin for her to touch and mark with her fingers and mouth. 

He swears once softly under his breath, his hands hard on her and then loosening with moaning sensation. She strokes him warm, strokes him hard, tastes the inside of his mouth, the pink crinkle of his nipples, the flinching skin of his abdomen, and the silvered hair at the base of his cock. Marks him on the inside of his thighs, secret freckles, secret smooth and scent she makes her own with slick fingers.

“Now,” he mutters, an unthinking command this time. His hands are big and just a little rough on her exposed breasts. He’s not always -- when he’s in control and totally secure of his sexual power over her, he’ll take his slow sweet time, fully appreciative of all her curves and softness. More often than not, he’s tender and laughing in their bed because together they’ve made this fun. Then sometimes he’s like this, shaking with arousal and a little angry with her because she always drags it out longer than he likes. Their egos clash even here, of course here, as she laughs down at him and jacks his erect cock. “Oh fuck, fuck. Fuck!” he snarls, grabbing her hip with one hand, the other still full of her breast.

They’re probably in full view of the beach. When she was licking down his chest, she had thought she heard a dog barking through the sumptuous tide of music. But she doesn’t care and she knows he doesn’t either. The scent of body cream surrounds them, another heady drug like the music and the weed and the sunshine, making this so fucking beautiful, making her feel beautiful as she eases his cock into her and settles in place atop him. His anger dissolves, his voice smooths, hands eager and tender again. “Yeah, like that, like that.”

She knows, this ceaseless sinuous rhythm, bare breasts and bare back and hips rolling deep, blood warm and filling with sunlight, all flesh instinct and the weird precious harmony of fucking another person. She opens her eyes, reminding herself that she isn’t fucking just any person. Him with his tender creased smile and familiar confident hands on her.

“Come here,” he murmurs, and she comes down to him with love, lets him guide them with one hand at her nape and the other at the small of her back, her face tucked into the warm dark of his throat. He braces one foot on the deck, his thigh tautening, and fucks her sure and smooth, gasping and swearing softly into her hair. His cock grinds up into her, familiar and still wonderful, making her whimper and whimper as she feels every inch of it against her wet hot insides, as it catches her sweet spot over and over again until she’s coming and coming in soft wet cries in their own private darkness. He holds her hard when he comes into her, shuddering on one long groan. Heartfelt.

When he gets hungry a little while later, he dislodges her to gather up his clothes, and disappears beyond the glass doors in search of food. Still high and fucked out, she drapes the white tee carelessly across her nakedness, and dreams. 

There’s a novel waking in her head as she looks at the bright horizon, the shape of a story, something wide ranging and complex and angsty because her ambitions are always long form. It’s not to be pressed, she sends curious thoughts out after characters. They’ll come to her, with their problems and their neuroses and their desperate desires, an endless series of slightly distorted reflections and refractions. And there’ll be a theme, something to explore in all its nuances and contradictions. Something with a tone, a mood of sorts.

Every time she comes out of this reverie and glances around, he’s regarding her with the hint of a smile. But he never says anything and she kisses him with light gratitude for not pushing, for not asking at this delicate time.

They go walking on the beach at night, holding hands and talking absently about everything and nothing. They sit on the sand with his chest at her back, her between his spread legs, and his arms around her as they watch the moonlight dance across the waves, listen to the neversilent murmur of the ocean. She likes the way she fits into the circle of his reach, how solid he feels against her, like someone she can depend on, someone who will be there. She leans her temple against his, wanting to be that person for him, wondering if she can. 

He goes running along the beach most mornings even though he hates the exertion. When he returns to the house, all sweaty and grumpy, she comes out of the shower, towelling her hair. “Did you have a nice run?” she asks, entirely too cheeky. He is not amused and topples her onto the bed, pulls her knees up and fucks her deep and raw. “Jesus god,” she groans when they’re done. “Fine, I’ll come running with you tomorrow.” 

“Liar,” he mutters, taking a great gentle bite of her bare shoulder. “You’re a liar, you won’t come with me.”

It’s true. She spends her days reading and watching movies and shows, and staring at the horizon as the novel coalesces on the edges of her mind. She reads on her phone until they discover the not too shabby bookshop in town, and come back with an armful of novels and histories. “We should have gone to the library,” she exclaims with loud regret, too late. He googles it and tells her the closest library is in the next town. “We’ll get through these first,” he decides and she agrees. 

Except a couple of days later he comes back with a vintage typewriter he found in some antique barn. “And ribbons too, look! How fucken cool is this? I wonder if they work, I hope they work. We can order some online if they don’t, I bet this shit is on eBay.” She watches as he chatters his way through setting up the typewriter and threading the ribbon. She feels seized in something great and tremulous, something she can’t bear to examine closely.

The spot he creates is a desk with a view of the ocean and the green hills sloping up from the beach. A chair is selected, appropriately cushioned. Lamps are retrieved from various parts of the house and discarded for being too bright or not bright enough or the wrong shape. She watches all this, bemused, from sitting on the couch arm. And when he stands back, quite grimy and dusty, so pleased with himself, she realises she’s done for. He has no idea that a typewriter is completely unforgiving of errors, horrifically harder and more strenuous than a computer keyboard. And she doesn’t have the heart to tell him. She’s just going to have to learn how to use the bloody thing.

One night after a few too many glasses of wine, they go swimming. Clothes discarded on the beach, he pulls her laughingly into the waves. “Is this entirely safe?” she yells, “I’m not sure this is safe!”

“Shut up and live a little, you’ll be fine!”

“Bloody Arians,” she grumbles but it is lovely in the cool silky water with the night breeze wafting salt over them and his warm mouth finding hers. His silver hair goes dark with wet, and she twines her legs around his, clinging to him in the battering force of the ocean and unashamed now that she has an excuse. They fuck in the waves and then on the beach under the black skies, their sounds drowned in the rush and roar of the tide coming in. 

When they recover from the pleasure and are struggling back into their clothes, discovering sand in uncomfortable places, she complains bitterly about From Here To Eternity and how that stupid scene constantly eclipses the real story and the real star of the movie and how the book is so very good and way too long but so satisfying because of that ending that the movie keeps surprisingly faithful. He listens to all this in uncharacteristic silence, smoking as they go up the beach to the house. Eventually she realises and turns to him. He’s coming up behind, looking very wryly at her, and he says with perfect insolence: “Yeah, but you were fucked well, weren’t you?”

She pushes him so hard he goes sprawling to the sand, outraged and cigarette lost.

“Don’t come back to the house until you’re --” she breaks into a squeal as he grabs her up off her feet. There’s a lot of yelling and flailing limbs and flying sand which ends with him lying on top of her, kissing her until she can hardly breathe.

“Well, you’re no Burt Lancaster,” she manages.

He laughs uproariously and she points her finger at him, daring him not to --

“Right, cos you’re totally --”

“Bitch please, I’m Montgomery Clift,” she yells up at him. He erupts into laughter, rolling off her with tears in his eyes. She pulls him yelling and protesting all the way back down the beach and back into the ocean, clothes and all. Standing amid the buffeting waves, he holds her face between his large hands and kisses her with moonlight on his hair and salt on his lips.

When the days turn harsh and hot, the house is a refuge of cool floorboards and discreet aircon enclosed in glass looking out at painful glitter blue, a secret place where they can lie in a tangle of limbs on the couch and watch something together on the big screen television. Condensation dripping off the glass of Pimms, she feeds him gin-soaked pieces of fruit, giggling when he nips at her fingers. He tells her random bits of history as the movie or show reminds him which she finds charming and only a little annoying. 

It takes five days of struggling with the typewriter and swearing under her breath for him to realise. She doesn’t say anything but one day he comes back from town with groceries, and she finds a couple of Moleskines and several fine tipped blue pens on the desk. “Hemingway was a dick,” she tells him, kissing him as he opens his mouth to argue, “but you’re a beautiful man and I adore you.” This makes him so happy he subsides in wreaths of smiles and fondly paws at her bottom.

Sometimes at night, he opens the bedroom windows so the breeze brings the scent and murmur of the ocean across their bed. It makes her dream of mermaids and sirens, of beautiful creatures with blue grey eyes twining their silver freckled bodies around her, dragging shades of blue deep under the waves. When she wakes, invariably he’s standing at the open window, nude and smoking and thinking his unreadable thoughts. 

“All right,” he says one morning. She glances up from her Twitter feed to see him lounging in the bathroom doorway. Glass and blue and grey white marble framing him so tanned and tall. A deep blue towel is wrapped around his hips. His mouth quirks in his expressive face as he tilts a razor at her.

“Ooh!” She bounces up, so eager he laughs, letting her push him back. 

The marble counter is cool and hard under her thighs, a delicious contrast to the warm solidness of his body. He puts his hands on her knees and parts them, that certain sultry dip to his lids and lashes as he comes to stand between her legs. Her breath catching, she tries to laugh at him but can’t. “Show me how,” she says shakily. He makes that soft breathy sound she recognises, clearly as turned on. 

Hot water soaked into the hand towel, dabbed onto the dark untidy line of the tache. It’s almost too intimate, having him so close, watching her eyes as she does this. Her breasts ache, wanting the rough soothe of his palm. “Touch me,” she murmurs without thinking as she dampens his upper lip thoroughly.

“Hmm?”

He’s going to be a tease. But just as she glares, there’s that mischievous little boy grin. “Don’t cut me,” he warns. And just as she opens her mouth, he slides his hand under the weight of her left breast. “Unh,” she ends up saying, the towel falling weakly to the vanity. Thin smooth tshirt, her nipple visible tightening and erect, thumbed slowly as he kisses her so gentle and so filthy too. “Oh god, I hate you,” she moans when he lets her mouth free. 

“You’re the one who wanted this.” His voice is low and dark, those eyes very certain of his sexual power and beauty. 

She locks her ankles behind him and says, “I’m doing it. Doing it now. I hate that thing.”

As she reaches for the oil, he laughs quietly. They both know he’s going to grow it back. It’s his weird creepy act of defiance, she’s sure he knows exactly how sleazy it makes him look, that he revels in it. But for now, she gets to do this and he lets her. 

The scent of sandalwood, the lather soft on her fingertips, the soft gleam of blue grey as he looks at her mouth. His fingers pushing up the top to bare one breast. When she takes up the razor, he untucks the towel from around his hips, letting it fall to the floor.

“Now, don’t distract me,” she says, blushing a little after every damned thing they’ve done. 

He snorts. “Don’t fucken cut me.” And offers his lathered face to her in an act of such terrifying trust it makes her heart spasm. 

“Against the grain?”

“With the grain.” He guides her wrist for that first stroke, and between their bodies, she sees when he takes hold of his hardening cock. Silver blade on the small hairs, cutting them from his vulnerable beautiful face. It makes her so wet, heat squirming between her thighs, rising fragrant between them as she tries not to fidget. His nostrils flare, deep breath in, he knows. When she half-turns to rinse the blade, his hand tugs down the other side of her top. Both tits out now, jutting nipples, the white fabric pulling across her back. It makes her feel appallingly flagrant, especially with the way he looks at them and grasps one bare breast, possessive and appreciative. “You’re awful,” she gasps, not meaning it at all. He grunts in his throat and she catches his wrist when he reaches lower. “No, god, let me finish.”

“Hurry up,” he says roughly which is terribly flattering. But she’s going to do it right. She shaves him as precisely as she can, and he tugs at his hard hot cock, watching her face and her tits all the while. Her mouth waters a little, knowing how he tastes, the weight of his flesh on her tongue, knowing how he’s going to feel when he pushes his cock into her soft wet cunt. 

When she lays the razor aside and takes up the hand towel, he gives her a look of barely restrained impatience. As she wipes the remnants of lather gently away, his hands close firm on her thighs, that certain demand. “Wait, wait,” she says breathlessly, “last bit of oil.” She smooths it onto his tender bare upper lip, almost leaning forward to kiss him. He doesn’t care about that, he gets his fingers between her thighs and makes her shake as he strokes into her opening cunt. 

“God,” she groans, clutching at his upper arms. Spreads her legs, half wondering if she can get her heels up on the edge of the vanity. But then he’s taken charge, taken hold of her hips and brought her to the marble edge. She catches one glimpse of his cock and then it’s in her, so fucking hard and invasive in the most delicious way. Clinging to his shoulders, fingernails digging into the flesh of his back, as he fucks her fast and savage, all hot skin and hot breath and moans clattering against glass and marble. After a bit of this, he pulls out and pulls her off the vanity, making her squeak with surprise. But then she’s turned and pushed down onto the marble, soft breasts pushed against hard stone, catching breathless glimpses of herself and him in the mirror. He gets one arm under her hips, pulls her arse up and sheathes his cock right back into her cunt. “Oh fuck,” she says involuntarily, slammed by the rhythm he takes back up again. It’s fine, it’s beautiful, she loves it when he’s this vicious and gloriously relentless, when he fucks her like it’s a little too anonymous and casual, like he doesn’t care about her. Which they both know is very far from true because neither of them are like that.

“It’s like that episode of the X-Files,” she means to tell him but forgets when he takes her to bed. Sandalwood and oil and smooth white sheets slipping against their naked bodies, he’s all tender again, slow deep kisses and soft murmurs as they touch and touch forever in the cool afternoon. Her mouth roams over him, seeking, sucking. He rubs his smooth face against the smooth insides of her thighs, and licks into where his cock has just been, sucks out the taste of them as she gasps and squirms between him and the bed. Her hand in his hair, he brings that taste to her mouth, wild salt and sea and cream that has her holding his face and kissing him deeper and deeper. 

“I wish it could be like this forever,” she says without thinking one arvo. The blue throw is draped across them, soft and warm on her back. Everything smells like sex and nectarine honey blossom. He’s lying on his stomach beside her, his chin pillowed on his folded arms, and now he looks at her with those beautifully shaped siren eyes, so blue grey by the curve of his freckled tanned shoulder. All the complexity and unreadable intelligence of him behind those eyes.

“Isn’t it?” he says and kisses her soft.


End file.
